


my light through the haze

by blackkat



Series: luminous beings are we [9]
Category: Star Wars: The Clone Wars (2008) - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Dragons, Fluff, Humor, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-09
Updated: 2020-10-09
Packaged: 2021-03-07 20:47:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,036
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26903872
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blackkat/pseuds/blackkat
Summary: “Oh,” Obi-Wan says, and promptly claps a hand over his mouth to hide a smile.
Relationships: Obi-Wan Kenobi/Waxer
Series: luminous beings are we [9]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1838944
Comments: 40
Kudos: 860





	my light through the haze

“ _Oh_ ,” Obi-Wan says, and promptly claps a hand over his mouth to hide a smile.

On the floor of the tent, a tiny dragon, the size of a youngling’s second form but sleeker, squeaks at him in indignation, struggling upright. He’s orange-gold, streaked with black, with a tiny curling beard of black whiskers on his chin, and Obi-Wan has to try very, very hard not to laugh as wide, leathery wings drag, rustle, _pull_ as another tiny body goes crashing down face-first on top of one of the first dragon’s wings.

With a squawk, the orange dragon tumbles over, overbalanced and already unsteady. Its tail takes out a third tiny dragon with a shock of blond fur, and they all go crashing down in a pile of limbs and wings and squeaking.

“Oh _my,_ ” Obi-Wan says, and can't help but laugh a little as he goes down to one knee, gently reaching for the elite members of Ghost Company as they wrestle like indignant kittens on the floor of the command tent. His own scales sing, a quiet recognition of _kin_ that vibrates through his bones, and there's something like joy kindling beneath his breastbone. Clones. Clones as _dragons_ , able to put on their scales just like Jedi, and that’s not something he ever expected to see, but now that he has—

Now that he has nothing has ever felt more natural except dragon-form itself.

With a hiss that’s more hot air than flames, the one with the whiskers—Waxer, that’s _Waxer_ —struggles out from under Boil, wings flapping, and promptly trips over his own feet, face-planting in the dirt with a thud. For a moment, he just lies there, and Obi-Wan feels a flicker of worry despite all the time he’s spent in the crèche, because dragons are sturdy little things even when this size, but dragons are also usually Jedi, not clones.

He carefully scoops Waxer up, out of the way of Boil and Crys as they slam into each other and go tumbling back to the ground, and Waxer is a bit too big to fit in his cupped palms, tail and wings and long neck spilling out over his hands, but he squeaks his plaintive thanks at Obi-Wan and wraps his claws delicately around Obi-Wan’s wrist. His orange wings dangle, marked with tallies just like his armor, and Obi-Wan chuckles, brushing his thumb over the closest one. Waxer shivers, squeaks, and Obi-Wan raises him to eye-level, studying the way the orange shifts across his scales, from deep umber along his back and the tops of his wings to pale gold on his belly and the undersides of his wings. The black of his mane and beard is stark in comparison, and Obi-Wan brushes it aside, strokes his thumb down the curve of that slender neck.

“I must say, for being an impossible thing, you certainly are a lovely one,” he says, and Waxer makes a soft sound that’s almost apology, dropping his head. Quickly, Obi-Wan nudges him back up, and says, “Oh no, my dear, that was hardly a _criticism_. You have _scales_. I think I can safely say this is one of the more wondrous moments of my life.”

With a high-pitched growl, Crys kicks out with his back legs from where Boil has him pinned, knocking the heavier-boned white dragon off of him. Boil goes spilling to the ground with a squawk, flat on his back, and Crys twists up like a particularly quick ferret and pounces, the two of them going rolling across the floor. Obi-Wan laughs, then glances at Waxer.

“Would you like to go join them?” he asks politely. “I believe I should make a few calls, to see if you three are an isolated incident.”

Waxer takes one look at Boil and Crys spitting and hissing and huffing hot air at each other, then slides out of Obi-Wan’s hands and promptly drops into his lap, curling up there and raising his head to give Obi-Wan a perfectly plaintive look.

With a chuckle, Obi-Wan slips a finger under his chin, scratching gently, and watches his eyes go closed as he practically vibrates with pleasure. “A no, I take it. All right. I think I can live with that.” He pauses, studying Waxer for a long moment, then traces a fingertip over spiraling horns. Not a youngling dragon, but…small. The body’s response to such a strange and unfamiliar shift, likely.

The clones all look different in their scales, too. A result of having different Force signatures, Obi-Wan expects, and—he’s glad for it. The clones try so hard to make themselves individuals, and this is a very simple way to prove to them that they _are_.

“I must say,” he says gently, and runs a hand down Waxer’s back. “You're a handsome man, but you also make a very handsome dragon.”

Waxer stares at him, wide-eyed, for a frozen moment, then jerks his head down with a loud squeak, covering his snout with his claws, then draping his wings over his head for good measure, still squeaking.

Obi-Wan laughs, bright and delighted, and a part of him wants to change as well, to put on his scales and curl up on the floor with all three of them, but—he’s too large, and they're too small. In a few shifts, once the clones have adjusted. _Then_ he can show Waxer and Boil and Crys the fun of playing as a dragon. Tag, maybe, or just running and leaping when one has wings, using the dip and rise of the ground to glide in between long bounds.

“Just the truth,” he says, and Waxer groans loudly. Half an instant later, the groan turns into a loud yelp as Boil and Crys together grab his tail, hauling him right out of Obi-Wan’s lap and pouncing on him, squawking furiously. All three of them go rolling across the tent in a tangle of wings and tails and indignation, and Obi-Wan presses a hand to his mouth, laughing as they tumble away.

Troopers. As _dragons_. Obi-Wan deeply, desperately hopes that it isn't a fluke, but—

Just this once, he gets the feeling that their luck is much, much better than that.


End file.
